


His Heart Restored

by H_W_Star



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Happy ending though!, Hurt/Comfort, Inner thoughts/feelings, M/M, Nagron, Nasir mourning/missing Agron, One-Shot, i love my sons, spoilers if you haven't watched past ep8, they're so good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:45:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H_W_Star/pseuds/H_W_Star
Summary: Nasir missing/mourning Agron when Agron was thought dead.





	His Heart Restored

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little late to the Nagron fanfic game, but better late than never I suppose :)  
> I love these bois and even though I watched this show years ago (and have been rewatching since) I have never written about these two. They're so good and I'm very grateful theirs is one of the strongest relationships in the show.  
> I thought I'd offer a small one-shot during the time when Nasir believes Agron to be dead and his reactions/thoughts after that. RIP my soft good son.  
> Also, it's not a Christmas fic but Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it :)  
> Thank you to all who stop by for a read, and hope you enjoy!

                He wished he had not seen Naevia’s eyes. There were no words she spoke for him to hear, but her eyes—they had told him a story more painful than could ever be spoken. Her tears, those she wept for not only Agron but her own love, were not even the worst of it. It was the feeling he got in pit of his stomach, the back of his throat, a pain he felt in his diaphragm every time he drew breath looking into her eyes that gave him clearest answer.

                He felt displaced, walking out of that tent. He didn’t feel grounded, like a tent not properly tethered down. Yet the camp kept operating around him, surrounding him with movement and voices as they all kept moving the same as they had been seconds before his heart had stopped. At a dire time when they were in precarious flight from the Romans, a time when survival stood shakily on the edge, he once contemplated what it would be like if Agron were ever lost to him. At that time, he imagined overflowing tears, soul-wrenching grief, and pain worse than any spear or sword. Yet though he was right about the pain, he could not have accounted for this shock that stole his breath, with no assurance of when he might drink in air again. Perhaps never. Indeed, he would be lying if he now claimed he did not desire to follow his lover to the afterlife, as swiftly as he could. But he knew Spartacus still needed men and support. More than that, Agron would not want him to give up cause. The time to be reunited with the man he loved would come later.

                Still, he could not stand this cruel dichotomy of the suffocating urge to cry yet remaining somehow absent tears. He could feel them in his throat, but they seemed to reach no higher, forever torturing him with the prospect of it. They would be at least some kind of relief.

                Though everything in him did not want to, he started walking in the direction of their bed and space. He refused to call it only his. It was a slow walk, his pace leaden and heavy with grief. Still the camp moved around him, as if oblivious to everything that had happened. They could not know, he reminded himself, the pain he was feeling. They did not even yet know one of their greatest had fallen. Of course they were oblivious.

                He found their bed, and though his intent was to slowly sink down to it, something broke in him that caused all strength to depart his body as he collapsed onto the fabric sheets. A sardonic half-smile pulled at his lips—perhaps that was his soul escaping him as well. He had no use for it now, anyway. He righted himself to a more stable seated position, but then merely remained there. It did not matter; there was no purpose he could set himself to at the moment. He felt waxen, like a candle never to be lit aflame again. Though he wished he could remain numb, absent thought and absent feeling, his mind betrayed him.  

                Unbidden, he thought of warm breath against his ear, whispering soft and secret words for only him to hear. He thought of hot lips on his burning skin, fingers—not slender or delicate in form but that still offered gentle touch—tracing across his abdomen, a nose pressed against his neck. Hot air and breathless laughter, the warmth of foreheads pressed together and eyes closed, cherishing bliss. He thought of clear green eyes, and the smile that always broke onto face like sun through the clouds. Wide and warm. He loved that smile, especially when he was often the only one to see it.

                How glad his heart looked every time their eyes met. Even when Agron’s gaze was cast with shadow of jealousy—something Nasir wished would not have been concern, especially when he belonged only to him—it was still precious to be held in sight. A sigh was wrested from his chest as he closed his eyes and brought a hand to his head. With it came the mourning of many things; the cadence of his lover’s voice every time he said his name, hands upon his neck or back in welcome embrace often followed by a sweet kiss. Fleeting as some of their moments were, he never delighted any less in them. It also made the longer ones that much sweeter.

                He could not hope to feel again in this instant. A laugh or smile seemed like such a foreign performance, as alien a notion as picking up a sword had been when he first joined Spartacus’ cause. Only this time there would be no teacher to guide him. There were no lessons in regaining the heart. He remained like that for several days, numb yet heavy with a feeling he could not give name to. Even when Spartacus announced games to honor the fallen, as a way to give comfort, he did not feel any. Yet he resolved to fight in a manner worthy of making Agron proud. He would water the sands with Roman blood. His mind did not think; he let his body take over, moving and wounding with anger and vengeance flowing through his veins. The clangs of steel, the roars of those watching, even his own hissing cries—all were muted around him. It was only at Naevia’s words that he came back to himself. He offered equal faith to her; these games did not grant life, but they at least provided some respite from the crushing grief that plagued him.

                Another day passed, and he heard word of Spartacus agreeing to trade of Crassus’ son for five hundred of their own people. He yet felt detached, even as night fell as he watched vast swaths of people pour in through the camp’s entrance. He saw the grateful reunions hurt Naevia as well; he wondered how much deeper her wound cut. His own chest clenched, the heavy feeling seeming to weigh him down even more, lead filling his lungs to the point where he dared not take another breath—until the utterance of his name by the pirate turned his gaze, and everything around him went silent.

                He felt his heart beat again.

                Clutched in Spartacus’ arms was Agron—tired, beaten, and so close to broken that he felt his eyes sting with salt of tears, but alive. He held no thought as everything ceased meaning absent the man who was several feet from him, and he barely registered clearing a path through the crowded throng to get to him. He placed a gentle hand to his heart’s cheek, lips already quivering with threat of more tears as he looked at his beaten lover. With effort, Agron met his gaze with rueful eyes. Nasir saw regret painted across his face.

                “The gods return you to my arms,” he spoke softly, thumb gently stroking his lover’s cheek.

                “I was fool to ever leave them,” his heart managed in reply, and Nasir could only hold him tighter, relief crashing over him like relentless tide. It was a more than welcome flood from the days of nothingness, and he could not voice the feeling of Agron back in his arms. Though his heart was tired and beaten, he was here, he was breathing, and the heartbeat Nasir could feel against his chest promised him Agron was alive. Gently, Nasir helped his lover walk toward their tent, finally feeling his heart restored.  


End file.
